


Ponce

by opheliacordelia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, Homophobia, M/M, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 11:50:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1145626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opheliacordelia/pseuds/opheliacordelia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Johnlock fanfic prompt for willingtofight.</p>
<p>Sherlock and John experience their first openly homophobic client at 221B, and Sherlock tears him apart the only way he knows how. Oneshot. Pre-Season 3.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ponce

Without turning around, Sherlock can already deduce two things about the client climbing the stairs to the flat.

One, he's developing a minor case of arthritis, most likely in his right knee judging by the weight of the step.

Two, he's going to be a 'problem client.' They'd had several of those this month already; the kind that wouldn't take no for an answer, or refused to leave the flat, or faked a case in a futile attempt to capture Sherlock's attention.

Poor John. They'd had to deal with so many more of these kinds since they'd started the slow process of letting people in on the knowledge that they were a couple. Two to three times the stupidity, if Sherlock was correct. There was no predicting, really, how often problem clients would appear-- but every now and then, Sherlock had an inclination. Though truthfully that was less of a logical deduction and more of a foreboding feeling of collective annoyance moving in his direction. Must document results later.

The lack of an audible knock followed by the unceremonious wrenching open of the flat door is the first indicator. Sherlock is already rolling his eyes.

"Oi, you the Sherlock Holmes they talkin' of on the telly?" the client rumbles out. Sherlock glances over but doesn't stand, surveys him. 'Tim Archer,' if his nametag is to be believed. Stoutly built, can't afford good shaving cream, razor burns on his stubble. Powder blue button up shirt, likely a 2009 brand. Black suspenders, cheap shoes, mismatched tie. Commonwealth. Employed in some low-end form of word processing. Dull.

"Why, yes," he says dully, arching a very unimpressed eyebrow.

John, apparently the only one in the building who cares about formalities anymore, stands up to meet him, holds out a hand to shake.

Archer ignores him, and Sherlock is annoyed by the slight. "You?" he says dumbfoundedly. "You're Sherlock Holmes? Bugger off, is that true?"

"Obviously."

"Who's this bloke then, your secretary?" Archer snorts, letting out a series of too-loud, hacking coughs.

"This is my partner, John Watson," Sherlock says darkly.

"Ay, yea, your partner in crime, hah?" he hacks again. "Excep' yer the ones fightin' the crime. AHAH. Naah, no really, what are you, a poof?"

 John tenses behind him, visibly annoyed, taps his fingers in a display of agitation on the desk.

"Yes, I'm the tooth fairy," Sherlock deadpans, rather unpleasantly. "Either present a case or leave, I've got no time for this stupid lark."

Sherlock can practically see the cogs connecting as Archer puts two and two together, collecting his wits in a fit of righteous indignation. He is immediately bored by it.

"Fairy is right! Wha is this business about, anyhow- I've come to meet with a reasonable bloke onna case o' accoun'ing fraud, not some ruddy poof," he yells out. "I've no business with a flowery ponce like you! What is this, some kind of joke?"

John has a vague awareness that his fists are clenching beneath him, knuckles turning white.

Sherlock says nothing, only stares. He steeples his fingers below his chin in that still, familiar way he does when he's cataloguing his thoughts. His dark, narrowed eyes bore into the subject before him.

To anyone else his face would appear blank, but John watches a flicker of irritation, and then the smallest hint of the flicker of a smile linger and die behind his eyes. He tilts his head ever so slightly, and suddenly, there's something very overbearing about the silence in the room.

John swallows hard, has a violent urge to punch the sorry git in his smarmy face, but Sherlock doesn't appear to be upset. In fact, he looks almost gleeful.

"Utterly fascinating deduction," he says simply, leaning forward, eyes glinting. "And how's the chronic erectile dysfunction treating you?"

The man blinks; eyes widen, jaw tightens. "Excuse me?"

"Erectile dysfunction. Or perhaps your problem is merely a temporary onset of impotence--either way, the tension in your jaw and lower abdomen clearly indicate a recurring pattern of extreme sexual frustration with no payoff, which is interesting, considering the very large, very expensive ring on your finger. You've not resorted yet to Viagra--the flushing and congestive symptoms aren't there--meaning you've given up on trying. Either way, you've obviously not had any sort of intercourse in months, why would you say that is?"--the man starts--"No no, you don't need to tell me. The worry lines on your face indicate trouble with the wife… how very sad, it appears she's not interested in you anymore; possibly because of the disappointing size of your penis, more likely because she's having an affair with your affluent, younger, and erm, 'well-hung' neighbor."

Sherlock's eyes flash. "But you knew all this of course."

The man splutters indignantly, disarmed. John feels a stab of satisfaction deep in his gut. "How could--you can't-- you've no proo-"

"The proof is in the pudding, Mr. Archer," Sherlock drawls, amused. "Or, shall I say in the futile masturbatory stains on your shirt. Do get a new stain remover, I must say the sight is rather unbecoming."

He splutters again, springs to his feet, face reddening. "One in five men suffer fro-"

"Oh I'm well aware of the statistics, Mr. Archer. From an investigative standpoint, anyway, I've never experienced anything akin to it myself." He leans back in his chair, eyes still boring. "In any case, John Watson doesn't seem to mind my being a 'flowery ponce,' and as he is the one capable of inducing multiple orgasms through oral alone I am inclined to prefer his opinion over yours. GOOD MORNING," he says loudly, dismissively, rising to his feet and ushering him out with a waiflike nudge to the back of his coat.

John suppresses an uncomfortable laugh as Sherlock straightens his blazer and settles back into his chair, stretching one long leg over another with a ridiculously pompous air. John just stares at him, mouth hanging open, face flushed, embarrassment twisting violently in the pit of his stomach.

Sherlock turns to meet John's eyes somewhat incredulously. "What?"

"Nothing, just…"

There is a brief moment of calculation as Sherlock tries to identify his misstep. "Not good?"

John laughs tightly. "I… it's just… I don't know whether to feel satisfied or humiliated," he says honestly, hiding his face with his hands.

"Consider it affirmance of your stellar performance in bed."

John just groans.

Sherlock smirks at him, works John's fingers away from his face. "Part of the package deal that comes with shagging a 'flowery ponce.' Really, you ought to have seen this coming."

"Clearly." He smiles, slowly, and Sherlock smiles back. He settles in next to John on the couch, strokes his jaw, leans in to nip at his ear.

"I suppose it was a little bit clever," John teases, tucking an arm around his waist. "Ponce."

Sherlock just smiles, leans into him.


End file.
